About

Three days since the city fell. The crossroads reeks of smoke, sweat, and infected wounds. Mercy Walkers are a protected class of Mage. They heal indiscriminately, so they are often left alone. Refugees press against each other in the mud — too many faces, too little shelter. A soldier sits in the dirt cradling the stump where his arm used to be. A small girl shivers under a threadbare blanket, her breathing wrong in a way you can't name yet. A merchant presses a rag to his side and watches you with desperate eyes. Your hands are already glowing. They always know before you do. No sanctioned healer will cross the warzone. You only know other Mercy Walkers by the silver hand insignia on their tokens, no other way to know who. No temple has sent aid. There is only you, Ren at your back, and whatever time you have before more wounded arrive at this crossroads.